Fortunes of War

by Stephen Coonts

  The two grinned at each other and shouted congratulations. Tight sphincters relaxed somewhat. The junior operator was the first to get back to business. He was amazed to hear high-speed screw noises very near, and getting louder. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing and stared at his computer screen. Another torpedo!

  This is no drill. These are real tobb7eaedoesst

  “Torpedo,” he shouted as he stared at the bearing presentation on the screen and tried to concentrate so that he could repeat the number to the tactical action officer. The big Russian ship-killer smashed into the stern of Harukaze. Water being essentially incompressible, most of the force of the explosion was directed into the structure of the ship. The explosion ripped off Harukaze’s rudder and both screws, bent the shafts, and smashed a huge hole in the after end of the ship. Water poured into both engine rooms, drowning the engineers who had survived the initial blast concussion. The ship drifted to a stop and began sinking at the stern. The echoes from the pings were very faint when they returned to Asashi. The Russian submarine was almost bow-on, three miles away, and four hundred feet deeper than Asashi. Sounds echoing off the rising seafloor were causing havoc with the computer. In addition, the sonar operator was also trying to determine the bearing drift on the torpedo noises that he was hearing. He was getting a positive drift when the acoustic decoys from Harukaze went into the water and complicated the problem. Then the explosion from Harukaze reached him, quite loud, water being an excellent conductor of sound. All this input, much of it extraneous, was giving the computer fits. He reported the explosion and the bearing, relieved and sick at the same time. Relieved because his boat was not the target, and sick because the bearing was to Harukaze, which he had been listening to for hours. He was startled when he heard more screw noises amid the horrifying sounds of ripping metal and bulkheads collapsing. Automatically, he checked the bearing. “Another torpedo, Captain. Bearing two one zero relative.”

  The relative bearing was the same as the first torpedo he heard, but not the magnetic bearing, because Asashi had turned sixty degrees. “Screw noises getting louder, Captain. Little bearing drift apparent.”

  “Launch the acoustic decoys,” the captain barked. “Screw noises on constant bearing, Captain.”

  “I asked for decoys, people! Our lives are at stake! Get them launchedst”

  “It will be a few seconds, Captain.”

  “Stop all engines.”

  “All engines stop.”

  “Left full rudder. Come left another sixty degrees.”

  “Left full rudder,” the helmsman repeated, just as Admiral Kolchak’s torpedo struck the stern of the submarine and exploded.

  22

  Jack Innes slipped up behind the president as he sipped his after-dinner coffee and whispered the news from Sagami Bay in his ear. President Hood made his excuses to the people around the table and stood up. He followed Innes out of the room. “A destroyer and a submarine — he torpedoed them both. Only a few dozen men from the destroyer survived. The sub was lost with all hands.”

  “What is he trying to do?” Hood asked the question in such a way that Innes knew the president didn’t want an answer. Finally Hood said, “Better get the Joint Chiefs over here. And the Secretary of State.”

  The two men walked to the Oval Office. After Innes called the duty officer, Hood said, “Is this the same skipper who blew up Yokosuka?”

  “Apparently so. CIA says the Russians have only one boat left, a Kilo-class named Admiral Kolchak.”

  “What was the skipper’s name?”

  “Pavel Saratov.”

  “One obsolete old boat …”

  “He’s a fox, he’s in shallow water, and he’s been damned lucky.”

  “What is he trying to do?”

  “I don’t know, sir.” An hour later, Hood asked the Joint Chiefs of Staff that question. “What is he trying to do?”

  Everyone had a guess. Hood waved the guesses away. “Why haven’t the Japanese found this guy? It’s an obsolete dieselstelectric boat.”

  The CNO answered. “It may be old and have limited capabilities, sir, but battery boats are very quiet. In shallow water they are extremely difficult to detect quickly. The computers have a devil of a time with the bottom echoes.”

  “Quickly?”

  “They have to snorkel every day or two, Mr. President. Given a couple days, trained hunters will find them every time.”

  “Gentlemen, to get back to it, the question we must answer is this: What trouble can Pavel Saratov cause with his little submarine?”

  “Obviously, he can sink a lot of ships,” someone said. “He could have done that without going into the lion’s den.”

  With the help of computer graphics, they reviewed the military situation. “Whatever Captain Saratov hopes to accomplish, sir,” the CNO said, summing up, “he had better hurry. He sank that destroyer three hours ago right there.” He used a laser pointer. “Even if he dashed away at fifteen knots — and that is a real juice-draining dash — he’s within forty-five miles of that position. The Japanese have four destroyers closing that area and they are flying in sonar-dipping helicopters from other naval bases. Regardless of what Pavel Saratov intends, he and his crew are rapidly running out of time.”

  “Gentlemen,” the president of the United States said, “I think Captain Saratov intends to deliver a nuclear weapon. How he will do it, I don’t know. My concern is that Japan may be tempted to retaliate if they have nuclear weapons.”

  They sat in absolute silence as the president looked from face to face. “We have given Japan all the information we possess on Captain Saratov’s submarine. I wish we could do more.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. President,” General Tuck said, “we should threaten both Russia and Japan with nuclear retaliation by the United States if they use nukes on each other.”

  Dead silence greeted that suggestion. President Hood rubbed his temple. “I don’t have what it takes to push the button,” he said finally. “I couldn’t do it. Kalugin and Abe might have the stuff, but I don’t. They would know we were bluffing. My daddy always told me, Never point a gun at a man unless you’re willing to shoot.”

  Saratov was bent over the chart of Sagami Bay, measuring distances to Esenin’s fault, when the sonarman said, “Helicopter, Captain. He’s hovering, I think.”

  A hovering helo could only mean one thing: a sonar-dipping ASW chopper. “Pass the word— back to silent routine. Tell the torpedo room to stop reloading the tubes. Absolutely no unnecessary noise.”

  Saratov glanced at the depth indicator, which registered twenty-five meters. Here in the shallow water of the bay, that was as deep as he could go. At least the water was noisy. There were fishing boats, ships, pleasure craft, high-speed ferries, all roaring back and forth here in Japan’s inland waters. Pavel Saratov donned the headphones and closed his eyes so he could concentrate better. A cacophony of screw noises smote his ears, some of them quite loud. On the other hand, he had those four damned bomb containers welded to the deck topside. Even at two knots, those things had to gurgle. Not to mention the missing anechoic tiles. The chopper was there all right, barely audible. The sonarman had good ears. “Start a plot,” he told the michman, slapping him on the back. “I already have, Captain.”

  “It will take us about an hour to get over the fault. Once we are on the bottom, we will be tougher to find.”

  The michman didn’t answer. He knew a great deal about this business and wasn’t buying happy propaganda. “Helo has moved to another location. A little closer.”

  “Say the bearing.”

  “Two six five relative.”

  “Two six five relative,” Saratov repeated to the navigator, who drew a line on the chart. “One rotor or two?” Saratov asked the sonar michman. “One, I think.”

  That meant the helo was relatively small. Perhaps it didn’t carry any weapons. Five minutes went by. No one in the control room said anything. They stared at a gauge, a control wheel, a lever, somet
hing, but not at one another. Saratov thought it strange, but in tense moments, they seemed to avoid eye contact with one another. And they listened. What they wanted to hear, of course, was nothing at all. “He’s breaking hover, fading. Sound is being masked by a speedboat. There is also a freighter going into the bay. He’s about a mile from us.”

  “Turn the sensitivity down,” Saratov suggested. “It is down, sir. It’s just damned noisy out there.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Esenin was looking at his watch, now looking at nothing, obviously thinking big thoughts.

  The air in the boat was foul. Saratov could smell himself, and he smelled bad. “Uh-oh. He’s right on top of us. He put his sonar pod in the water right over us.”

  “One knot,” Saratov told the chief of the boat. He said it so quietly that he had to hold up one finger to ensure the chief understood. Several of the sailors were holding their breath. The beating of the rotors, a mechanical rhythm, pounded against Saratov’s ears. The helicopter was very near. Now he broke hover and moved a bit, not very far. “He’s got us, I think,” the sonarman said, biting his lip. “Listen for a destroyer. He’ll be coming at flank speed.”

  After a few minutes, the helo moved again, to the other side of the boat. “He’s got us,” the sonarman said disgustedly, his face contorting. “He really does, Captain.”

  “Listen for the destroyer.”

  The sonarman nodded morosely. “XO, how old were those missiles you loaded in the sail launchers?”

  “Twenty years, Captain.”

  “Much deterioration?”

  “Some corrosion on the bodies of the missiles, but all the electrical contacts were good.”

  Another five minutes passed. The helo moved again. The tension was excruciating. “Where is he now?”

  “Starboard rear. He’s dunked his thing in all four quadrants.”

  “Take us up, Chief. Periscope depth. Sonar, get the radar ready. We’ll stick the sail up, shoot at this guy and put him in the water, then dash over to the general’s fault.”

  “How quiet do you want to go up?” the chief asked. “I agree with Sonar — the jig is up. Let’s do it fast, before this guy gets out of range.”

  As the boat hit periscope depth, Saratov brought up the periscope for a quick sweep. He wasn’t interested in the chopper — he knew where it was — but other ships in the vicinity. He walked the periscope in a complete circle, pausing only once for a second or two, then ordered the scope down. “Okay, gang. He’s up there. And we have a destroyer or frigate on the way. He’s bow-on to us. We stick the sail out and kill the chopper, then go back to periscope depth and shoot at the destroyer.”

  “Why are you engaging this ship?” Esenin demanded.

  “I’m trying to buy you some time, you goddamned fool. Now shut up!” To the chief, he said, “Surface. Let’s go up fast, hold her with the planes, shoot, and pull the plug.”

  “You heard the captain. Surface.”

  As the sail cleared the water, the sonar michman fired off the tiny radar on its own mast. He knew the quadrant where the chopper was, and that is where he looked first.

  “He’s running dead away from us.”

  “Radar lock!” the sonarman called. “Fire a missile!”

  The antiaircraft missile went out with a roar, straight up, then made the turn to chase the chopper. Being a man of little faith, Saratov fired two more missiles before the sub slid back under the waves.

  “I think we got a hit, Captain,” the sonarman said, pressing his headphones against his ears.

  “Level at periscope depth, Chief. Flood tubes five and six and open outer doors. New course zero four five. Lift the attack scope and stand by for a bearing.”

  “Helo just went in the water. I can hear the destroyer.”

  “We’ll wait until the destroyer is closer.”

  “Down the throat?” Askold asked, his brow furrowed deeply. “We have two fish loaded. We hit with one of them or we die.”

  “Destroyer is echo-ranging, Captain.”

  Everything happens slowly in antisubmarine warfare. In this life-or-death duel, the charging destroyer seemed to take forever to close the distance. The men in the control room wiped their faces on their sleeves, checked their dials and gauges, eyed the captain, wiped the palms of their hands on their filthy trousers…, and prayed.

  “Up scope.”

  Saratov snapped off a bearing, focused the scope, and then dropped it into the well. The scope had been out just five seconds. As it was going down, the XO read the range off the scope’s focus ring.

  “Five thousand one hundred meters.”

  “He’s going to start shooting, Captain,” said one of the junior officers.

  “Quiet. Control yourself. Sonar, does he have us?”

  “It’s hard to tell. He’s hasn’t focused his pings yet. I think the shallow water is bothering him. Or all the civilian traffic. And he is going too fast.”

  “Let’s pray he doesn’t slow down. He won’t hear the fish until they are right on him.”

  “He should be about three thousand meters, Captain.”

  “Up scope.”

  “Bearing and range, mark. Down scope.” Five seconds. “He’s coming off the power, Captain.”

  “Two thousand meters.”

  “Fire tube five!”

  “Tube five fired.”

  One mile. The torpedo was doing forty-five knots, the destroyer slowing…, maybe twenty. Fifty-five knots of closure. The torpedo would be there in a few seconds more than a minute. Twenty seconds, thirty … “Up scope.”

  Saratov grabbed the handles as the scope came out of the well. “He’s turning to our left. Bearing fifteen left on tube six.”

  “Fifteen left, aye.”

  “Tube six, fire. Down scope.”

  Aboard ASW frigate Mount Fuji, the combat control center crew was well aware that the submarine in front of them was armed and dangerous. They had received a data link from the helicopter before it was shot down and knew the location, even though they hadn’t yet located the sub on sonar.

  The decision not to focus the echo-ranging signals was a conscious attempt to make the submarine skipper think he was still undetected. Mt. Fuji’s captain ordered the ship slowed to enable the sonar to hear better. As Saratov surmised, the sonar operators were having great difficulty picking the submarine out of the background noise.

  When the sonar chief petty officer called, “Torpedo in the water,” the tactical action officer ordered the antisubmarine rockets fired.

  They rippled off the launcher as the frigate turned right, to Saratov’s left, to avoid the oncoming torpedo. The ship turned quicker than the torpedo, which missed.

  When he was firing his last fish, Saratov saw the rockets” muzzle blast and knew the moment was at hand.

  As the scope went into the well, he ordered, “All ahead flank; come right ninety degrees.”

  He looked at the faces staring at him. “Antisubmarine rockets,” he said as the sonarman called the splashes. The second torpedo went off under the frigate’s keel, tearing the bow off. The noises of the sea rushing in and bulkheads collapsing were audible in the sub even without a headset. The men just started to cheer when the submarine shook under a hammer blow. “Starboard side, Captain. It hit the outer hull. Yes, and holed it.”

  The chief started giving rapid-fire orders. The holed tank was quickly identified and air pumped into its mates in an attempt to preserve buoyancy and keep the sub from impacting the bottom of the bay. While all this was going on, Saratov consulted the chart. He used a ruler to plot the course he wanted to the fault, then ordered the rudder over.

  The odor of feces was quite noticeable. Someone had lost control of his bowels. Maybe several people had. Hanging on to the bulkhead, General Esenin never took his eyes off Pavel Saratov. “It could have been worse,” Askold said philosophically. Amid the confusion, the sonarman said to no one in particular, “We’re going to die.”

&nbs
p; A squalid, shoddy monument to bureaucratic stupidity and inefficiency, the city of Irkutsk in central Asia nevertheless stunned first-time visitors by the spectacle of its setting. The extraordinary waters of Lake Baikal, on whose shores the town sat, were a dark blue, almost black under the shadows of drifting clouds. The lake was so deep that it was once thought to be bottomless. In truth it was a huge inland sea 375 miles long, containing one-fifth of the planet’s fresh water. The surface stretched away until it merged with the horizon. Towering along the western shore of the lake was a range of high mountains, still snowcapped from the previous winter. More rugged, craggy blue mountains lay to the south and east. Since arriving in Irkutsk, Yan Chernov had not taken the time to admire the view. He spent every minute in meetings with generals and colonels who had flown in from Moscow. “You will escort a strike on Tokyo,” he was told. Amid the transports with Aeroflot markings at the base sat a half-dozen Mig-25’s, elderly Mach-3 single-seat interceptors. These planes, Chernov was told, would actually carry the bombs. Of all the planes the Soviets had built through the years, which the Russians had inherited, only Mig-25’s had a chance against Zeros. Mig-25’s could use their blazing speed to outrun the Japanese interceptors — dash in, drop their weapons, and dash away before the Zeros could shoot them all down. A Moscow general with an amazing display of chest cabbage held up one finger. “Only one,” he said. “Only one has to get through.”